


Command Strategy

by Andriech



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 18:29:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20840069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andriech/pseuds/Andriech
Summary: When Kirk's chance at defeating another Captain's ball team seems lost, help comes from an unexpected source.





	Command Strategy

Kirk groaned. Not a subtle, under-the-breath groan, but an all-out growl. He rolled his eyes elaborately, scratched the back of his head and turned on his heel in frustration.

Kyle climbed to his feet and made an effort to follow his commander. “Captain, I’m fine. Really…”

“Really,” McCoy interrupted in his own growl. “I’m the ship’s Doctor and he is not fine. That’s a sprained ankle and I’m sending him back to the ship, Jim: NOW. Take your weight off that foot!” he spat at the now standing Transporter Chief.

The man shifted sheepishly and shoved his leather glove under his arm. “I’m sorry, Captain,” he mumbled.

“Problem, Jim?”

Kirk’s jaw tightened and he turned cold hazel eyes on the approaching man. His step was as light and easy as the smile on his face--and as phony.

“Oh,” the man drew out in deep concern as he stopped and eyed Kyle juggling his balance. He pushed his baseball hat back on his deep amber hair and sighed. “Now you’re a player short.” He grinned. “The Enterprise will have to forfeit, I’m afraid.”

Jim Kirk’s hazel eyes shot at the scoreboard, if only in an effort to take attention away from the way his tight jaw swept down over his whole body. Oh, yes, he thought, I actually despise Captain Howard Jameson. The nine members of his crew that he had brought along fell under the emotion just by association.

“Oh, wait,” the other Captain stopped whatever Kirk was going to say. His grin broadened as his eyes pointedly shifted beyond the Enterprise Captain. “This Vulcan belongs to you, doesn’t he? He can play for your team,” he said brightly.

Kirk scowled in irritation at the way the man had phrased it: as though the crewman on a ship were a Captain’s possessions.

Spock raised an eyebrow as he paused by the now gathering crews of both the Enterprise and the Kongo.

“I do not have an adequate ability to enhance the Enterprise’s baseball team,” was the First Officer’s sedate reply.

“You’ll have to forfeit,” Jameson replied with a grin. “You don’t have enough players.”

“Enterprise will win with less.”

Kirk smiled easily as Chekov stepped from behind Spock. His cocky arrogance was typical and, as usual, it eased the tension around them.

“Mr. Chekov concluded his business and wished to join you. It was only logical to bring him here, rather than giving him directions.”

“Of course,” McCoy chuckled irreverently.

“Watch Enterprise win--I cheer,” the Chief Navigator smiled happily with confidence. “Ball?” he asked, his eyes sweeping over the field with mild curiosity. “Is baseball, no? Baseball American?”

Kirk blinked, the lines burrowing deeper into his forehead as he eyed Chekov. He didn’t know what business the young man had in the Russian Federation before he joined his shipmates at their game in Iowa, but his accent was now so thick the words were barely recognizable. Pavel Chekov had somehow, in fact, also forgotten how to speak the English language.

Jameson laughed out loud. “What about him?”

“Both play with less,” Chekov stated simply.

“It’s against the rules, boy,” the other Captain smiled, taking his hat off to run his fingers through his matted down, amber hair.

Kirk saw the flash in his officer’s familiar brown eyes, but the man continued on in his friendly tone. “Number matters?”

“You need three in the outfield, six in the infield.”

Now the Navigator looked confused. “Some play indoors?”

Jameson chuckled and moved over to slip his arm around Chekov’s shoulders. He led the young man away from the group to slowly, patiently, and tolerantly explain the field, the game and the playing positions to the Russian.

For his part, Chekov listened as patiently with interest.

When the Captain finished, there was a brief silence as the younger man surveyed the area before him: apparently digesting the information presented to him. He pointed to the center of the field. “That man: he throws the ball at you?”

The entire Kongo contingent burst out laughing. When their Captain’s humor had died to a chuckle, he shook his head. “No, actually, you throw to one of your teammates. We try to stop him from catching by hitting the ball with a bat, remember?”

Chekov nodded slowly, frowning. “That,” he stated somberly after a moment, “I can do.”

“Lad…” the Enterprise's Chief Engineer began to protest.

“I throw ball,” the man continued without hearing Scott. Turning, he jabbed a finger at Sulu. “Hikaru catches ball.”

The Enterprise’s Captain had somehow been mulling this over during all this time. Yes, Chekov had a small build, but that was the universe’s demented disguise for situations such as this. His muscles were rock solid; he was quick, agile, had a firm grasp of his center of balance and was full of energy. Kirk would have automatically chose Chekov as shortstop, but Sulu’s hard, dark gaze caught him out of the corner of his eye.

He folded his arms across his chest and drew a deep breath as he turned back to meet Jameson’s gaze. “I would have to rearrange my lineup.”

The other Captain’s grin caused a chuckle of amusement in his crew. “Do whatever you have to, Jim. Just get a team on the field again.”

Kirk turned back to his crew as the other crew wandered back to their dugout. Hazel eyes falling on Reilly, he hoped not to find resentment in his face. The Lieutenant merely smiled.

“It’s the bottom of the sixth, good time for a new pitcher.”

The Captain nodded agreement. That Chekov was probably the only person who had been able to steadily endure the overzealous man’s friendship could not have hurt. The Navigator was well liked by his shipmates for good reason.

“Riley, take Kyle’s position as shortstop. Scotty, switch with Sulu in center field. The rest of you hang tight where you are. Kyle,” he added with amusement, “You’d better get to sickbay before the Doctor’s head explodes.”

The man laughed and solidly set his cap on Chekov’s head. “Play some catch, Pavel.”

Reilly gave Chekov his glove, took Kyle’s and Sulu and Scott exchanged theirs as the Enterprise crew took their positions on the field. As Uhura passed on her way to first base, the Captain could not help but notice the gentle, smug look on her features.

He watched Chekov carefully from his place in left field. The young navigator’s pitches were strong enough to reach Sulu, but they were wholly unremarkable. Wobbly, without control, the throws actually bored the observer. It was, in fact, like watching the two play a poor and unenthusiastic game of catch. The first batter got two strikes, two balls and finally ended up with a single.

Kirk’s jaw tightened. He was just too damned competitive, he admonished himself. Was it really that important that his officer’s beat the Kongo’s in a meaningless baseball game after all? They all knew who had the better crew. Chekov had stepped up for his shipmates, was upholding their honor and permitting them to finish the game with at least a semblance of dignity.

Hell, no, the Captain thought fiercely, scowling as he leaned his palms on the top of his bent knees. Chekov was as competitive--if not more so--than Kirk. He put his heart and soul into everything he did: gave 120%. The Enterprise’s Navigator's ruthless non-acceptance of either mistakes or imperfection on his own part was the thing that worried the Captain the most about the command-officer-in-training. Chekov's current pitching could not be acceptable to himself.

Kirk straightened and called time-out as he caught the signal from Sulu. He strode to the pitcher’s mound, mildly surprised as Spock approached as well.

“I thought you brought Kyle back to the ship,” he commented as they both reached Chekov.

“Indeed, I did. I returned.”

The Captain grinned wryly. “Indeed, you did.”

“I believe this is what you requested Ensign,” the Science Officer continued as he held out a baseball glove to the younger man.

Chekov accepted it and after examining it briefly, he nodded with a smile. “Yes. Thank-you, Mr. Spock.”

“I shall return again to the ship, Captain: if that is acceptable.”

Kirk shrugged. “We’re on leave, Spock. Just don’t get in Starfleet maintenance’s way.”

“I shall not.”

Chekov dropped Reilly’s glove on the ground unceremoniously as Kirk’s eyes lingered for a moment on the batter waiting at the plate.

“Pavel,” he advised, “This guy’s a power-hitter. Can you…” he hesitated, and changed his wording. “ Can you throw at Hikaru’s head, at his feet, and at the box on the other side of the plate? The bases are loaded. If you can walk him, we’ll only give up one run. Do you think you could throw like that?”

Chekov nodded slowly. “I could, Jim.”

Kirk returned to his place in left field, but the Navigator’s words haunted him as he strode across the grass. The Captain was indeed self-satisfied that his command team had become a group of friends off-duty: Chekov, however, had never before called Kirk by name.

I could…Yes, he could, the Captain considered, but Chekov had no intention of following his advice.

When he turned, he ground his right hand gently into the palm of his glove and eyed the field. Chekov’s back was turned to him now and there was a stillness in his form. The young man stretched his shoulders slowly as he moved his neck back and forth. No, Kirk realized, he was shaking his head. The Captain glanced sharply at the squatting Sulu and saw the quick, signaled questions.

Kirk was grinning as he bent over in readiness.

The first strike spun the massive batter past a ball that moved so fast it was barely visible. The second came from an expert knuckle ball and the third, in quick succession, was a missed well-executed curve ball. The ‘power-hitter’ never had a chance.

“Time!” Jameson roared and drove toward the pitcher’s mound angrily.

Kirk chuckled as he strolled in to meet him.

“Can he do that while we have the field?” McCoy demanded as Kirk passed him at third base.

The Enterprise Captain shrugged without hesitating. “I don’t think it matters, Bones.”

“What’s the problem, Howie?” he asked politely as he reached the mound.

“I want to see that new glove!” he retorted, green eyes wild. “Why did you change equipment?”

“It’s just a pitcher’s glove,” Chekov replied quietly. “The other one was uncomfortable.”

With apparent frustration, Jameson shoved the glove back at Chekov after finding nothing unusual about it. “What was so uncomfortable about the other one?”

The Navigator sighed and, without raising his eyes, methodically pushed it back on his hand. “Mostly,” he answered, “It was on the wrong hand.”

He raised his eyes to the Kongo’s Captain and gestured dramatically. The glove was on his right hand: and he had spoken in clear, unadulterated, English. “I’m left-handed.”

“You told me you never played baseball before,” Jameson snarled.

Chekov looked at the man incredulously. “I never did.”

“You said…”

“I don’t think he did,” Chapel agreed.

A quick glance told Kirk the Enterprise crew had gathered into a loose circle of support around the unusual time-out gathering.

“Perhaps you should take some refresher courses at the Academy while you are here on Earth,” Chekov remarked helpfully. “It is complete folly to assume anything about someone just because they are not from the same place you are: yet, Captain, you assumed since I didn’t grow up next to Yankee stadium that I had never played baseball or bothered to learn how to speak your language. I never told you that.”

“Why you little bastard!”

The dark eyes flashed again and the Navigator straightened noticeably. “I didn’t make your assumptions, Captain.” The rank, like the last time he used it, came out of Chekov like an insult.

Jameson stepped up closer to the younger man, face and eyes hard as he glared at him silently--their bodies nearly touching.

Kirk coughed reflexively as he forcibly held back a wry smile. Perhaps Chekov was more right than he knew. His attempt to make the younger man squirm by holding his threatening stance solidly inside an American’s personal comfort space of three feet clearly indicated something about Jameson. He had no idea that the young Russian’s need for ‘personal space’ was only six inches and Chekov could stand there for an eternity without discomfort.

The wide, soulful brown eyes danced with humor, showing Chekov, too, understood what Jameson was attempting. Kirk suddenly realized with horror that the Navigator’s wry sense of humor may be unable to endure it, though, and he may…well, hell, kiss the man or something.

The Captain relented at that moment, though: suddenly taking a step backward and throwing a final glare at the Enterprise’s new pitcher. “Fine,” he bit out with a snarl. “You go for it, you little puppy dog of a thing. At least it will take a little bit of effort to massacre your team now.” The snarl turned demonic as he spun on his heel and strode away angrily.

“Oh, tell me he did NOT just call Pavel a puppy,” Uhura’s voice came out in a hoarse whisper from behind Kirk. The Captain felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise. Calling a Russian male a puppy...well, even an American man wouldn't respond well to being referred to as a retarded, emasculated runt.

“Jeez,” the Helmsman muttered. “This is going to be BRUTAL.”

Lines furrowing deep into his forehead, Kirk’s hazel drew carefully over to the ship’s Navigator. His face was hard as stone: but it was the warm brown eyes that chilled the Captain. They were neither warm nor brown, but dark, cold and seemingly without depth as they were fixed on Jameson’s retreating form.

“Jim,” Kirk remembered with clarity Sulu’s chuckle from the past. “Yah, you’ve seen his tantrums, but believe me, you’ve never seen Pavel Chekov angry.”

“Hey, Pavelotchka,” Sulu said brightly as he stepped up from behind Kirk. “Let’s get going: we’ve got people here that can’t wait to get some fielding in.”

There was no response until the young man turned and slowly surveyed the people standing around him. No change in the eyes or stoniness of his face occurred until he turned his attention back to his glove. Mashing his fist into it with a vengeance, he clearly and deliberately sank into all-consuming sulk.

As his best friend, Sulu had understood something Kirk clearly did not.

“It’s just that…” Chekov’s familiar accent was back in his voice, and he hesitated with a shrug, which emphasized his childish pout. “Well, it’s the forth of July. We’re supposed to have a barbeque at Jim’s house, and then the carnival and fireworks.” He shrugged again, and deliberately looked at the ship’s commander through the tops of his eyes.

They were still hard and downright evil, but Kirk saw something clearly recognizable in them as he continued speaking. “This is the bottom of the sixth inning: I thought, perhaps, everyone had enough exercise. We wouldn’t want to be too tired to enjoy the rest of the day. How often to we manage to be on Earth for a holiday?”

Kirk’s smile started in the depths of his eyes and slowly and devilishly spread across his face. Now, he understood. “Get us out of here, Pavel. Crush them.”

The Navigator simply nodded and moved back to take his place on the mound again.

“What’s with the accent?” Reilly blurted out. “He doesn’t have an accent?”

It was Uhura that chuckled. “Yes, normally he does, but he can speak correct English if necessary.”

“Says it hurts his mouth,” Sulu added.

Reilly considered it a moment. “Hurts my ears,” he observed as he left to take his place on the field.

“Let’s get going,” the Captain prompted as he moved to take his own place. McCoy strolled with him as the group dispersed.

“Jim, what the hell is going on?” the Doctor demanded.

Kirk shrugged luxuriously. “You apparently haven’t noticed yet, but Pavel Chekov is not the kind of man you want to cross when he’s in command. I think I’m going to go have a seat in left field. I suspect we have an all-star on the mound.”


End file.
